In the early morn,
I slip away from a dream,
to wake up teary-eyed and forlorn.
It’s a rocky start to my day:
remembering this life I lead, chock-full of sadness and decay.
The mirror thrusts a perturbing image at me:
A bloated white thing, its eyes adorned with tinted bags.
Day by day, my soul withers away - the hardest thing to see.
If only I could catch it, keep it from leaving,
alas, the remaining fragments of humanity are fleeting.
In the dimness of the kitchen,
I hear my own heart groan,
its song so desperate that I can’t help but listen
to the songs of my own sadness.
The clock’s hand crawls around its face,
a cruel reminder of time,
Sometimes too fast, too slow, but always a waste.
But, I don’t move, opting to listen to the fridge,
its drone as montonous as this life of mine.
Looking out the window,
I see a mother playing with her son who screams with glee,
and the trees drown the streets with colours of fall.
This apathy that fills me turns me ugly.
On my tongue, the bitterness of little white pill,
just so I don’t feel anything at all.